Nope, there is no closure in funerals. I will want to ask you so many questions about why you hurt me repeatedly? Without asking me even once , my side of that story which you took the trouble to construct and I wept day after day to deconstruct , most evenings spent in double conversations , one in my head , other with social propriety. What happened to Judas , does not matter. Abhimanyu did pay a price for knowing too early , for knowing in the womb. Who wanted one more star in the sky ? Sky can hold many black holes. My heart aches.

Women with out Men-1

It felt comfortable , we never really met each other when men existed in our lives. There was no need to explain, we had heard enough of he left you because………… It truly did not matter who decided to leave even to your mother. Whenever anyone broke whatever was left of our hearts we ran to each other for shelter. It was still about men !


Afraid of working 24X 7
yet not helping another to live
instead hear he died at his own
hands…….Afraid of loving a man
who may see me as an investment
not paying the expected dividend
or as a photograph that got folded in all the wrong corners.I am afraid to live in a house with
a mirror with out a reflectionAn opaque surface where nothing Is impressed. I am afraid of preferring to talk to a stone than a man one day I am afraid of thinking Intuition is just a random choice Not a gift of God.I am afraid of sending e-mails to
my self , hoping to be understood
By a thief who will be interested
enough to break genuine friendships
But will never offer me company
I am afraid of getting addicted
to a routine with consistent
sparks of creativity helping others , fooling my self to think I am making a difference or I am not like disposable contact lens that never is worn
to sleep.. I am not afraid of drama I am merely afraid of calling it a reality since I believe it as a reality
I am not afraid of death
I am afraid of dying


I had seen him while he had incontinence and urinary tract infection with feverish delirium. He was later diagnosed with renal carcinoma. He had noticed a dot of vermilion on my forehead as a symbol of Hinduism. He was diagnosed with panic disorder. We spoke about mortality , life after death, many lives and many masters. It was difficult to let go of the fragile life threads, I saw his struggle. Fear of Thanatos pervaded the room and lights dimmed. He said hesitantly , I did not believe in ” Idol worship” but now I want to donate an idol of Vishnu to a temple in our native place , in silver …I nodded reassuringly. There was hope in his eyes. He continued , ” There will be no flaw in the idol , only then it will be fit for worship” I did not defend the flaws.

Book Review: Love Letters with Spelling Mistakes by Vaijayanthi Subramanian — A.R Sara

The author has eloquently and powerfully narrated eight stories with a rare and brilliant insight that combines fierce intellect, sensitivity and compassion. They are complex, nuanced and deeply stirring and manage to tug the heartstrings and draw deep sighs from the reader. Each unique story is a bold and uninhibited journey into the human psyche […]

Book Review: Love Letters with Spelling Mistakes by Vaijayanthi Subramanian — A.R Sara

How could you forgive? With out even forgetting …….

Forgetting did not help at all. I did not forget. I knew he still suffered from feelings of inferiority , I knew I still carried that air of  a trophy to him. Nobody else did any better. The others tried to subdue me in respectable spaces .  The others insulted me with out getting caught. He insulted me calling it love. But then men almost always begin with lust. It becomes a power game , when it is not reciprocated. It is a power game even if you reciprocate. After the ego is burnt down , very few beds remain cozy. Learning indifference is easy after years of tears. 

Moods Are Weighed in Milligrams

Everyday I am forcefed life ! This is so true.
And writing helps me digest it , yes ! Strikes a chord in me.


By Omar Hussain

It starts with a conversation. Turns into an interrogation. The room raging with homicidal silence. I squirm on this crusty velvet couch. Purple like Prince. She stares back. Blankly. Like every therapist in every movie or show. With her hair cropped high and tight, she prods about dad. Dares me to unload.

So I do.

It continues with the prescription. Turns into my new, unwanted, perfectly pained identity. The amber bottle lying still in abuse. I take the twenty milligrams contained within each green soft-shell pill, notorious Prozac, day after day. Smiling, she asks how I feel.

“Better,” I lie.

“Every day I’m force-fed life. Writing helps me digest it.” – the writer

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